


Master of Death

by Rainbowrites



Category: Discworld - Terry Pratchett, Glee
Genre: Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-08-11
Updated: 2015-03-12
Packaged: 2017-11-11 21:37:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,965
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/483149
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rainbowrites/pseuds/Rainbowrites
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The first time Kurt met Death was on the playground. Death was there for the flowers Kurt was picking</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I blame nowishforwings. Always

The first time Kurt met Death was on the playground. Death was there for the flowers Kurt was picking, he explained.

Kurt had offered to put the flowers back in the ground (Death had assured him that while it wouldn’t help it was a very nice thought) and then told him that he should probably add some sparkly glitter to his cape.

IT’S NOT A CAPE. Death said. IT’S A CLOAK.

“What’s the difference?” Kurt asked.

A CAPE IS SHORTER, AND DOESN’T COVER THE ENTIRE BODY.

“Oh.” Kurt considered that. “So your knees would be showing.”

AND CONSIDERABLE MORE THAN THAT.

Kurt nodded, contemplating the horizon as he mulled over this new information. “That makes sense then, that you wear a cape. I think most people don’t want to look at skellingtons unless they’re the ones in the doctor's office or in the haunted houses. But only on Halloween.” He added quickly. “Otherwise only in doctor’s offices.” He looked up and down at Death. “Are you from a doctor’s office?”

I AM NOT.

“Oh.” Kurt looked crushed at his script being so utterly denied. But, as small children do, he rallied quickly. “You probably just don’t remember.” He said patronizingly. “I don’t remember being born either, it’s okay.”

I REMEMBER EVERYTHING. ESPECIALLY THOSE THINGS WHICH HAVE NOT YET HAPPENED.

Kurt cocked his head to the side. “But if you ‘specially remember stuff that hasn’t happened, then doesn’t that mean you don’t really remember the stuff that has? People only have so much room in their brains. Daddy says that memories are like closets, and can only store so much stuff. He says that whenever he forgets to bring home the milk.”

Death nodded. BUT I REMEMBER EVERYTHING. AND I HAVE NEVER BEEN TO A DOCTOR’S OFFICE.

Kurt looked aghast. “But what if you get sick?”

I NEVER HAVE. PERHAPS I CANNOT GET SICK. Death bowed his head, and Kurt felt very sorry for him. Being sick was awful, but it also meant ice cream, and having your mommy sing to you and pet your hair. Maybe Death didn’t have a mommy to pet his hair.

“I can pet your hair.” Kurt offered.

Death cocked his head to one side consideringly. BUT I HAVE NO HAIR TO PET.

“I can rub your head if you’re bald, that’s what Mommy does to Daddy.”

I HAVE NO HEAD.

“Did you lose it? Mommy says that she’d lose her head if it wasn’t attached to her shoulders.” Kurt glanced around him, as if hoping to have somehow missed a disembodied head during their talk.

I HAVE A SKULL INSTEAD. Death offered, after a moment of watching Kurt scrutinizing the grass.

“Oh, okay then. I can rub that.” Now that the idea was in Kurt’s head, there was no way he was leaving without rubbing Death’s skull. Death didn’t quite know what to do with this sudden course of action. Death didn’t often come face to face with determined 5-year-olds and their skull-rubbing tendencies. Humans were so very confusing.

Death sighed, and it was a gust of music and dying men’s rattles and the echoes of screams into the night.

“You should brush your teeth.” Kurt said.

Death gave up, and bent so that Kurt could remove his hood and rub soothing circles onto the skull there.

\--

now with gorgeous fanart by blameitontheanon!

[ ](http://blameitontheanon.tumblr.com/image/47459701848)


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The second time Kurt met Death was in the hospital.

The second time Kurt met Death was in the hospital.

“Are you here for my mommy?” Kurt sounded almost as old as Death, and if Death had a heart it would be breaking.

I AM.

“Will she be okay now?” Kurt hesitated, looking at the scythe in Death’s hand. “Will she be okay now that she’s with you? She won’t- she won’t hurt anymore?”

NOTHING WILL EVER HURT HER AGAIN. Death promised.

Kurt lower lip wobbled alarmingly. Death carefully unfolded a white pinky bone from the blackness of his cloak. It glittered under the harsh lights of the hospital. PINKY SWEAR.

Kurt silently accepted Death’s pinky swear, the childish action made ceremonial by his solemness. Men had been buried with more pomp before, but Death had been to very few that made even him feel the weight of power and enchantment pressing against his bones.

YOU HAVE MAGIC IN YOU. Death observed.

“Of course I do.” Kurt said. “Mommy always told me my voice was magic.” Kurt’s voice didn’t waver, and Death felt unaccountably fond of this tiny boy’s strength. Humans could be so resilient. Well, metaphorically. They tended to be unable to bounce back from things like getting crushed under pianos or falling off cliffs. He would know.

SHE WAS PROBABLY RIGHT.

“Mommies are always right.” Kurt side-eyed him. “Didn’t your mommy ever teach you that?”

I HAVE NO MOTHER.

Kurt clasped Death’s finger bones, staring up at the eternally grinning skull. “I’m sorry.” He lifted up his arms, and Death picked him up obediently. “Me neither, now.” He kissed Death’s cheekbone.

MOST PEOPLE ARE AFRAID OF ME YOU KNOW. Death remarked after he set Kurt back down. He was definitely not choked up. He was a skeleton; it was physically impossible. Death ignored the fact that technically, most of what he did (if not everything) was physically impossible. He and Physics had had rather a bad falling out long ago. Physics cheated at gin rummy.

“Why?”

BECAUSE I AM DEATH.

“Oh.” Kurt turned this over in his head. “I thought it was ‘cause you were a skellington.”

THAT PROBABLY DOESN’T HELP. Death admitted.

“Do you have  _any_ family?” Kurt tried to imagine life without his Daddy. He hugged himself and stopped thinking about it.

I HAD A DAUGHTER ONCE, LONG AGO. SHE MARRIED MY APPRENTICE. THEY ARE BOTH DEAD NOW.

Kurt patted Death’s knee consolingly. “I’m sorry.” He wrinkled his nose. “Uhm, what’s an uh-pren-tice.” He sounded the word out carefully.

HE WOULD HAVE TAKEN UP MY MANTLE.

“He was going to steal your fireplace? Where would you put your picture frames?” Kurt looked extremely affronted on Death’s behalf. Stealing was wrong, his mommy and daddy had taught him that after he tried to take the horrible tacky garden gnomes from Ms. Doozenblatt’s lawn next door. Even if he was saving her from herself, they’d explained, it wasn’t okay to steal.

ER, NO. I MEANT THAT HE WOULD BECOME DEATH AFTER ME.

“Would he have turned into a skellington too?” A thought occurred to Kurt. “Was your daughter a skellington? Is your wife a skellington?”

NO. AND I HAVE NO WIFE.

“Oh.” Kurt looked at him sadly. He’d obviously decided that Death’s wife must have died. Death decided not to correct him. Humans and their assumptions. It was really quite interesting. There was nothing Death did not know, and thus there was nothing for him to make assumptions about. “Do you miss them?”

Death considered it. I DON’T KNOW.

“How do you not know?”

IT IS A HUMAN THING, TO MISS. TO DESIRE WHAT YOU CANNOT HAVE.

“Are you not human?”

I AM DEATH.

“But you’ve got a human skellington.” Kurt poked a protruding wrist bone suspiciously, like it might turn out to be made of marshmallows instead of bone. “Doesn’t that mean you used to be human?" 

MOST SKELETONS ARE SOMETHING THAT WAS, WHEREAS THIS IS WHAT I AM.

“Oh.” Kurt considered this, and nodded decisively when it decided it seemed to make sense. Once again, Death marveled at this boy’s magic. Most people tended to go through rather messier attempts at understanding Death. Usually there was more screaming. Which, really, Death found quite rude. It wasn’t like he  _killed_  people.

Kurt pointed at the scythe. “Is that for me?”

EH? Death clutched the scythe protectively.

Kurt shrugged. “People keep giving me presents. They think if they give me enough stuff it’ll help fill the hole in my life, that’s what Aunty Anna said. I wasn’t supposed to hear her, she thought I was sleeping.” He looked down and carefully examined his socks. Death looked too. They were very nice socks. Lacy.

I SEE. Death tried to hide his scythe behind him. It didn’t quite work. The scythe was very big, and Death didn’t have a lot of body for it to hide behind. Kurt started to reach for it again.

ER, WOULD YOU LIKE TO RIDE BINKY INSTEAD?

“Binkies are for babies.” Kurt said imperiously. “I’m  _eight_ , I’m not a baby.”

BINKY IS MY HORSE. HE IS VERY GOOD WITH BABIES THOUGH.

“Oh. I didn’t know babies could ride horses. Do you ride with many babies?”

VERY OFTEN.

Kurt pursed his lips as he thought. “Is that sad?” He asked. “My mommy said that it was especially sad when Mrs. Newberry’s baby died ‘cause babies had so much potato-shell.”

POTENTIAL? Death hazarded a guess.

“That.” Kurt nodded. 

ALL HUMANS DIE WITHOUT FULFILLING THEIR POTENTIAL. Death said. POTENTIAL IS A VERY HUMAN THING. RATS DO NOT CURSE THE LOST TOES THEIR BROTHERS NEVER BIT, AND FLOWERS DO NOT MOURN THE SEEDS THEIR SISTERS WILL NEVER SOW. THE GREATEST MAN WILL BE EXPECTED TO HAVE BEEN BETTER, AND THUS HUMANS TURN THEIR KIN TO SAINTS FOR THE MIRACLE OF DYING.

Kurt turned that over in his mind. There was a lot there. Finally, he decided to address the most important aspect.

“So it’s okay to pick flowers then, since their families don’t mind?” He asked. Kurt had wondered about that since he first met Death. He knew he would have to leave flowers for his mother. It was what one did. He didn’t want to have to feel guilty for it.

THEY CANNOT MIND, FOR THEY DO NOT HAVE ONE.

Kurt nodded. It made sense. Flowers didn’t have any skulls.

Kurt considered the offer once more. But after a moment he shook his head. “My daddy needs me.” He said solemnly. “I can’t leave. I don’t have time for binkies and kids stuff. I need to be grown up now.”

I TAKE A GREAT MANY GROWN UPS ON BINKY.

Kurt looked back down at his socks, then back up at Death’s scythe. “You’ll be back, won’t you?” He didn’t look at Death’s face, or what passed as it, “You’ll come back, and then I’ll ride Binky.”

I WILL BE BACK. Death promised, for there was no escaping Death. He was always there for you in the end.

Kurt accepted the promise as his due. “I’ll see you later,” he said, and his words looped chains of magic around Death. Death examined them curiously. He had never been bound thus. Usually it was the other way around.

YOU WILL.

Kurt kissed his gleaming white cheekbone once more to seal their deal, and then went back to his father. Death watched him go. He should go see Susan; he was pretty sure her last Christmas postcard had come from a boarding school. Maybe she could tell him if all children were like this.

He ended up appearing in a crowded classroom during her lecture “The Dark Ages, No They Couldn’t Just Turn On The Lights and No The Fuses Were Fine”. She ended up using him as an example of the Bubonic Plague and gave an impromptu anatomy class, so Death counted it as excellent family bonding time.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This time Kurt does not greet Death as a friend
> 
> (takes place during Grilled Cheesus)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry for the rick roll tumblr guys! I LOVE YOU ALL <3

“Get out”

Death turned slowly.

The boy was older, his baby fat melted away like candle wax. Death recognized the spark that burned there. The boy’s eyes were unfamiliar though, pink with crying and hard with fury, and for a moment Death wondered if he’d lost track of time and if this was perhaps the great-great-grandson of the original young boy he’d met picking flowers. It had happened before. Quite embarrassing.

HELLO.

“Don’t speak,” the boy hissed. “Don’t move. Just. Get out.”

Death felt the tug of magic on his bones, the feeble words made steel by the boy’s will. He looked at the child, and at the man beside him.

HE IS YOUR FATHER. He said, because Death is many things but subtle isn’t really one of his strong suits. Not in the human definition of the word anyway. Death is subtle and secret in his own ways, but by human standards he is what Albert not-so-affectionately calls “the bastard love child of Captain Obvious and an enigma wrapped inside a puzzle locked in a labyrinth that’s part of a riddle that’s actually just part of a mad man’s attempt to make conversation with his pet coconut.”

“He’s not yours,” Kurt said. “It’s not his time yet.”

WOULD YOU BARGAIN FOR HIS LIFE? Death asked. He was curious, and the feeling interested him. Humans did such strange things sometimes; even Death could not always tell their future. It helped that Fate and Destiny often got into cat fights about who truly ruled the Universe. They were like cock fights but with claws rather than spurs and the future of the world hanging in the balance instead of $2000.

Unless they were a part of a soap opera. Then the answer was always “she’s pregnant, and you’re the father.” Even if they were both women. Especially then, actually. Ysabell had been especially fond of Ankh-Morpok’s #1 soap “As The Turtle Turns (and Everything Falls Into Space (And By The Way, You’re Pregnant))”. But then again, Death did not think the people in soaps really counted as human.

He watched Kurt pale, interested in the way the two human’s hands both turned white when Kurt pressed them together. The blood pumping beneath the thin veneer of skin was so fragile, so easily affected. It was a wonder humans managed to do as much as they did, considering.

“What do you want from me?” The words fall like stones, and Kurt’s tongue darts out to taste them on his lips.

Death had seen men run into fires for their children, had reaped them himself. Men running into fires for their parents however, was far rarer.

ONCE, Death said, THERE WAS A WISE MAN.

Kurt’s eye twitched, and his mouth opened to ask _what is the point of this_ but the computer by his father’s head beeped loudly, and he fell silent.

THE WISE MAN WAS DYING. Death felt it was important to say this, although he didn’t like to draw attention to himself. Death was always there after all. He didn’t need people to acknowledge that to make it any less true.

A RABBIT, A FOX, AND A BEAR CAME UPON HIM. THE BEAR FISHED AND BROUGHT HIM THE SALMON TO EAT. THE FOX UNEARTHED ROOTS FOR HIM TO EAT.

“But the rabbit found nothing,” Kurt said. His hand spasmed around empty air. “So he had the old man build a fire, and then he threw himself into it so that the man could eat him and thus live on.”

YES

“That’s a Bhuddist story originally,” Kurt squinted at him, “Though the details changed.”

Death was not surprised by the fact that Kurt knew this story about death, about rebirth and of sacrifice. Then again, nothing truly surprised him.

Kurt smiled, but it was the grin of a dying man for all that it was not blood stained. “So do I have to jump into the fire?”

If Death had eyelids he would have blinked. EH?

“To save my dad,” Kurt’s fingers were white and bloodless from the grip he had on the end of the bed, “Do I have to sacrifice myself?”

NO, Death said. I JUST THOUGHT THAT’S WHAT HUMANS DID IN THESE SITUATIONS. He shrugged, the movement awkward and jerky as if someone else moved his bones for him. TELL STORIES TO DISTRACT AND ENTERTAIN

Kurt stared at him. Death stared back. Death had rather a lot of staring contests. He never blinked. Kurt’s lip twitched. Death’s did not.

Kurt’s laugh sounded like it had been punched out of him, a wheeze of surprise and pain. “Wrong script,” He muttered, in between gasps of laughter. Or it could have been sobs. They were too similar for Death to be able to tell definitively. Humans kept their joys and their despairs so close in their hearts, entwined together even tighter than the Gordian Knot. Or the Boredian Knot, which the Crown Prince of Gimli had invented during one afternoon when the television broke, which had promptly baffled so many people that Civil War ensued over it. People didn’t like being made to feel stupid after all. Especially not by a little boy. Better to just kill him and go back to feeling good about yourself and your own little world, free of complicated tangles and impossible problems with no real solutions.

“So are you going to save him?” Kurt asked. The words trembled in the air, fragile and ready for reaping.

I DO NOT SAVE PEOPLE, Death said, for he was Death. PEOPLE WILL NOT DIE AS LONG AS THEY REMAIN IN MY REALM, FOR IT IS A PLACE OF NOTHING AND NOTHING CANNOT DIE.

Kurt would have known that, had he been younger. But he was older now, and the world had caught him a little tighter. “If he doesn’t die, then I’ll be your apprentice.” Kurt had spent the last few years of his life balancing on that razor wire between self-expression and safety, and he knew that everything had a price.

Death cocks his head to the side, for he had seen Mort do that many times when they traveled together, when they came upon someone Mort said was “a weird one.” Death strongly suspected Mort would have declared Kurt “a super weird one” and had always wanted to try out the head tilt. YOU WOULD TAKE UP MY MANTLE?

Kurt laughs again, that same punched out sound. “But not your photographs.”

I HAVE NO PHOTOGRAPHS. THEY ARE TO HELP PEOPLE REMEMBER, AND I NEVER FORGET.

“Yeah, I should have guessed.” Kurt muttered. He rubbed the buttons of his pocket. “Sometimes they’re just nice though.” He swallowed, and nodded. “I would take up your mantle.” He smiled, a broken slash across his mouth that let his teeth gleam under the hospital lights like bones. “Does that mean I’d have to become a skellington?”

Death laughed, and it sounded like someone who has never heard a laugh before, never even read a description in a book. It was too hard and throaty like a scream, falling flat with false promises.

Kurt didn’t flinch, just sighed and flicked his hair from his eyes. “You need to laugh from the diaphragm to really make it look like you care.”

The next time Death was much better at it. It crept up from his toes bones, rumbling from where Death had decided his diaphragm should be, and reverberating around the room like a church bell tolling.

Kurt straightened impossibly taller, so tense he could shatter with a touch. “Do we have a deal?”

Death extended one gleaming hand. He waggled his pinky finger at carefully calculated angles. He remembered of course. Death always remembers. Humans are very strange, but this once stopped tears, and so, Death knew, there was no reason it would not work this time as well. PINKY SWEAR

This time when Kurt laughed the corners of his mouth actually turned up, though only for a moment before he dragged them back down. “Pinky swear.” He rocked up on his tiptoes to respect the script they’d set, but not quite as far as he once had. He was older now after all, and taller. “My dad will be okay, and I will be your apprentice.” They shook on it, and once more Death could feel the magic of the boy’s words tickling at his ankle bones.

HE WILL. Death agreed, for it was not yet Burt Hummel’s time. His time would come, and Death would take him, as he would take everyone in time. No deal would save him.

Kurt kissed Death’s cheekbone to seal their deal. “He will.”


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Blaine meets Death. Death takes far too much pleasure in it. Kurt wonders if he can headdesk himself into infinity

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rest in peace Terry Pratchett.
> 
> This is unbeta-ed, and probably not very good, but I wanted to get something out in this 'verse today.

I DO NOT SEE THE POINT OF THIS

“Well of course you don’t,” Kurt muttered around a mouthful of pins, “You’ve been wearing the same thing for all eternity.” He carefully marked a few more places for rhinestones. “It’ll be classy, I promise. Night sky-esque. Death _is_ eternity, might as well look the part.” Besides, he thought, if he had to wear the same plain black cloak for all eternity he’d kill someone. Someone _not_ for his job.

Just because most people didn’t see you until the very end didn’t mean you shouldn’t always look your best. Nobody wanted to be escorted from this mortal plane by some hobo. 

I AM TOLD THAT BLACK IS CLASSIC

If it were from anyone else, it would have been pouting. From Death, it was just a statement of fact.

“Back in black,” Kurt muttered, but spoke again before Death could insist that he couldn’t be back in black because he’d never left black (although he’d taken a detour into white but then white and black weren’t opposites at all. White was an absence of color and black was the presence of all colors, and what was Death but the presence of absence?) “Maybe for you, but _some_ of us like to change things up a little sometimes.”

I CHANGE, Death insisted. ONCE I WAS THE HOGFATHER.

Kurt squinted at him. “The what?”

THE HOGFATHER.

Kurt thought about that. “Tell me?”

SHOULD I REST YOU ON MY KNEE?

Kurt sighed. “That’s for grandfathers and their grandchildren. I’m your apprentice. Big difference.” He picked out another handful of glittering black sequins. “Plus, that’s for little kids. I know we all must seem pretty much like kids to you, but once a person hits puberty they don’t want to sit on their grandfather’s knee anymore. Most don’t want it even before then.” He pointed at Death with the business end of his bedazzler, “If you try that on anyone else, you’ll be slapped upside the head with a harassment lawsuit. Even Death can’t escape lawyers.”

AH. Death sighed, and it was the sound of wailing men and bones crumbling away to ash.

“Stop sulking,” Kurt scolded. “It’s very unbecoming.”

“Hey Kurt, your dad let me-“ Blaine stopped, one hand still on the door.

Kurt distantly heard the clatter of rhinestones hit the floor from his numb fingers.

Blaine closed the door carefully, the click of it echoing apologetically throughout the room. He stared at Death and, seemingly on autopilot, offered up the bouquet of flowers.

THANK YOU. Death said, and accepted the gift as his due. They died as soon as he touched them, but he appreciated the gesture very much. Not many people still made offerings to him. Usually he just got screams or offers of money and land. Which he didn’t need of course, being Death. Also, he had a very nice little investment in the chief Cheesemaker of Quirm, after Susan gave him a tip about the use of blue mold in the making. Apparently the human digestive tract provided the perfect environment for the mold spore to flourish and have lots of little moldy babies that grew up to one day take over the brain and turn it to mush. And then made them buy more cheese. Death wasn’t very interested in money, but he was very interested in cheese.

He poked a brittle bud curiously. Blaine whimpered.

Kurt opened his mouth and then closed it again. There weren’t really ready-made scripts for when your boyfriend met your boss, who was also Death. It was pretty niche. Kurt felt that it showed the lack of creativity among writers. He swallowed, and took a single breath the way he’d always heard you should when firing a gun. Your aim would be truer. “Blaine, this is Death.” He gestures from Death to Blaine and back again. “Death, this is my boyfriend Blaine."

Blaine whimpered. His hand rose as if by itself, through the magic of politeness engrained so deep into a soul that if you ever examined his cells they would apologize for not cleaning up first.

“ _Thank you_.” Kurt said, grabbing Blaine by the shoulders before Death could do anything like actually _take_ Blaine’s hand. “I’ll see you later.”

ONE MOMENT. Death reached into his cloak and withdrew his scythe. Kurt nearly fell down under Blaine’s sudden weight, as his boyfriend’s knees apparently went out at the sight. I HAVE SEEN THIS GREETING DONE MANY TIMES. OFTEN IT IS DONE IN MY NAME.

If it were possible for a skull to look put out, Death’s did. YSABELL NEVER LET ME.

“Oh no,” Kurt suddenly had a horrible feeling he knew what was coming next. Oh he wouldn’t _dare_ –

But Death cannot dare, for nothing is particularly daring to Death. After all, daring is action in the face of uncertainty while nothing is uncertain to Death.

Death lifted his scythe, but as he lifted it, it was no longer a scythe. It had never been a scythe, but had in fact, always been a shotgun. Death very pointedly waved his shotgun in Blaine’s face. Kurt almost put his hands on his hips, before realizing he’d have to drop Blaine to do it and settling for making a _horrified_ face at Death.

I HAVE A SHOTGUN AND A SHOVEL. Death said solemnly. AND NO ONE WILL MISS YOU IF YOU HURT HIM.

Blaine’s eyes rolled back, and he slid bonelessly through Kurt’s arms to the floor.

“Shit!”

THAT IS A COMMON REACTION. Death told him.

“Oh go away!” Kurt said, throwing the first thing he could find at Death. It turned out to be a handful of cubic zirconia, which was rather less impressive than he’d hoped for, glittering around Death’s cloak with pitiful pings as they hit the floor (never him). Kurt sighed, and rubbed his temples. “Please?”

I WILL BE BACK. Death promised.

“You always are,” Kurt said absently as he checked Blaine’s pulse. Kurt thought he might be a little messed up, that Death’s promise to return for him was comforting rather than terrifying. When he looked up, Death was gone. “You should really do a pop or something. At least a flutter,” he muttered under his breath.

Blaine groaned.

“Shit!” Kurt started, and accidently dropped Blaine’s head. Blaine stopped groaning. Kurt went back to rubbing his temples. At least now he had a little more time to think of an explanation. Somehow he was pretty sure “yeah, I work for Death every other weekend and sometimes I try to get him to branch out from black cloaks into something with a little more flair. I mean, the guy’s been around since, well, ever. You’d think he’d have picked up some fashion sense. So are we still up for Breadstix tonight?” wouldn’t go over terribly well. 

He dragged Blaine over to the bed and arranged pillows around him in case he spasmed in his sleep, to prevent him from hurting himself. He put a few cookies by his side, to remind him of how Kurt took care of him. After a moment he moved the vase full of Blaine’s last bouquet over near his head as well, to remind him of how much he really did love Kurt.

He settled down to wait. He ran a few scenarios in his head. About 90% of them ended with Blaine fleeing for his life, quite literally. He scowled at the lights. How could he _think_ when the lights were so… so bright and buzzy. His skin probably looked horrible under those fluorescents. He missed his basement and his dimmer switch.

Kurt glanced over at Blaine, whose eyes would open up right under his ceiling light. Kurt carefully unfolded the pocket handkerchief that Blaine had lent him just days after they first met, to wipe up the bit of grape slushie that he’d missed in his rush to meet Blaine for coffee. It was embroidered. Kurt fingered the tiny rows of lilies, kissed the B.A. Sometimes he loved Blaine so much it felt like his stomach was dissolving with it. He nearly collapsed into a puddle of so much adoring goo at Blaine’s feet at the sudden rush of feeling. Instead, he carefully arranged the handkerchief over Blaine eyes instead, so he wouldn’t be blinded when he woke up.

He sighed, and rocked back on his heels. Maybe if he emphasized how Death wasn’t really a big part of his life? No, but that would be a flat out lie, and he knew where those ended up. In sing offs and broken chairs, that’s what.

He settled down to wait in his mother’s old rocking chair, tapping his steepled fingers against his mouth as he thought. Wording would be very very important here.

“Oh my god.”

Kurt froze.

“Oh god, am I dead?” Blaine tugged off the handkerchief with shaking fingers, staring around him at the flowers and food with increasingly wide eyes. “I’m dead.”

Kurt winced at the crack in Blaine’s voice and looked at his bed with new eyes.

Ah. That was unfortunate.

Kurt wondered if it was Death’s influence – that in times of stress he apparently set up a funeral reception, or if that part of him was why Death had chosen him. Kurt shook off the thought. It didn’t matter whether the chicken or the egg came first, what mattered was the meal you made with them.

Kurt started to speak, but had to stop to clear his throat. He gripped his scarf tight enough for his fingers to start shaking. “No, you’re not dead.”

Blaine looked at the cookies, and then smiled at Kurt. Kurt nearly went lightheaded with relief. “Man I just had the weirdest dream. I’m sorry Kurt, I must have tripped and hit my head when I came in.” He shook his head, grinning up crookedly at Kurt. “I’m such a klutz, I’m sorry.”

And Kurt could see it, crystal clear. He could see exactly how easy it would be to make a snarky comment about how this day had been a long time coming, what with Blaine’s habit of climbing all over the furniture. He could almost hear the exact pitch of his teasing “that’s what you get for trying to be taller than me.”

He could have this; he could keep Blaine and the beautiful, normal, boyfriend-filled life that he’d always dreamed of _and_ keep his promise to Death. It would be the best for both of them too. He could see how relieved Blaine is to think it was all a crazy concussion dream.

It would be so easy.

“It wasn’t a dream,” Kurt said firmly. “That was Death. As in the Reaper, the one who takes you when it’s your time.”

There is a difference between what is easy and what is right, and Kurt’s never been one to take the easy way out.

He had to remind himself of the consequences of lying in the face of the way Blaine suddenly tensed. Broken chairs and trucker hats and Mellencamp, he reminded himself. No one wanted that again. Kurt was done lying about who he is.

“You’re friends with Death?” Blaine’s face was frozen into his smile, except for his eyes. The right one was twitching. Kurt fidgeted.

“Not _friends_ exactly.”

“Then what _are_ you?”

Kurt fiddled with his scarf as he pretended to think about his answer. It was particularly great scarf, he’d found it at a sample sale. Pure silk with beautiful flower detailing.

“Kurt.”

Kurt tore his eyes off the tiny stitches on the scarf, the way they blended almost invisibly into the fabric and yet changed it completely. “I don’t know, I see him sometimes and we talk.” Kurt shrugged, feeling almost embarrassed, “He promised me a ride on his horse Binky.”

Blaine grabbed his hand, like that would stop Death from taking him if either Death or Kurt wanted him to go. Kurt had to take a grounding breath against the heady swell of love for Blaine’s blind faith in _them_. He curled his fingers around Blaine’s hand to feel the pulse pumping in his wrist.

He counted the beats, and on the tenth he said, quietly and with the most perfect diction he can muster, “I’m his apprentice. He hasn’t taken me to… to collect anyone yet, but. Well. Someday.” He couldn’t help the smile curling around his lips. It was the first time he’s spoken the word out loud since he day he made his promise. “I’m his apprentice,” he repeated, wondering, and licked the words off his lips.

To his credit, Blaine didn’t sputter or scream or scoff or anything else that begins with s and ends with ‘I think I have a lovely new sweater for you to try on Kurt, don’t pay attention to the fact that the sleeves buckle in the front, it’s the newest fashion in Paris I promise.’ “Apprentice?” Blaine echoed.

“Apprentice.” Kurt confirmed, and felt like they’d somehow exchanged the word, passed it back and forth between them for inspection. He swallowed it back down, and he knew it should sink like a stone but he felt warm with relief instead.

Blaine fiddled with the end of Kurt’s scarf. If it were anyone else, they’d be losing a finger. Instead, Kurt carefully guided his fingers to smooth along the stitching to get the full effect.

“So you’ll be Death someday?” Blaine asked, circling the outline of a rose with his pinky finger.

“That does seem to follow,” Kurt snapped, and apologized by flipping over the scarf so Blaine could feel the rougher texture underneath the smooth silk, examine the backstitches that weren’t pretty per se but held the whole thing together.

Blaine touched the back of the rose carefully. “So can Death have a boyfriend?” He smiled, and it was a shadow of the confidant grin that Kurt had seen that day on the stairs. But Kurt knew now that smile was as fake as a sunlamp. “I ask the important questions, I know.”

Kurt laughed, and curled his fingers around Blaine’s wrist even tighter until he could feel the blood thumping underneath as though it ran through his own veins. “If you’d asked me anything as clichéd as ‘what comes next’, I’d have had to dump you.”

“I keep things interesting.” Blaine kissed his knuckles, and Kurt blushed despite himself. “What would you do without me to shake up your life?”

“Oh I don’t know,” Kurt said breathily, “Just have a pretty boring life I guess.” He shut up Blaine’s slightly hysterical laugh with a kiss, and then another and another until he was flat on his back with Blaine’s hands buried in his hair.

Blaine kissed him so hard their teeth clacked together, so determined to be okay that Kurt didn’t know what to do but kiss him. Blaine swallowed the air from Kurt lungs as he gasped against his lips, clutching at him as though he could consume every part of him and leave nothing for Death to take. He cradled Kurt’s face between his hands, his fingers grasping greedily at the flush on Kurt’s cheeks.

“It’s okay,” Blaine’s voice was the barest hint of a breath between their lips, less spoken word than thought crystallized into being through sheer force of will. He kissed Kurt’s ear. “Everything little thing, is gonna be alright.” Blaine’s voice was shaking, soft enough that Kurt knew Blaine was just thinking it hard enough that it slipped out by accident, but it was still perfectly in tune.

Magic and music, Kurt knew, were incredibly similar. They were only two letters apart for one thing. He didn’t think Blaine was magical. But if he squinted, music could turn into magic before his eyes. It happened all the time at McKinley. Why not here too?

Blaine had sung life into him once before. Maybe he thought he could do it again.

Kurt closed his eyes and let Blaine engulf him.


End file.
